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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25934353">necessary oversight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/low_fi'>low_fi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the lighthouse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lighthouse AU (not the film), Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One shot in two parts, suicide mentions throughout - suicide treated lightly, they fall in love over the phone what else can i say, this AU is not based on anything but the aesthetic is somewhere between canon TMA and Dishonored</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:28:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,050</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25934353</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/low_fi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Lukas is a lighthouse keeper. One evening, he gets a call from a cryptic overseer tasked with monitoring his work.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood &amp; Peter Lukas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the lighthouse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>with thanks to inkandcharcoal for the help and encouragement, as always.<br/>i wrote this fic in a frenzy over the last few days. please heed the warnings - there are suicide mentions throughout, and they are treated lightly, so please don't read if you might find that triggering or upsetting. the whole thing is dark and Lonely-centric. in short: read at own peril.<br/>i hope you enjoy :) !</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sound of crashing waves is a calm, reassuring constant. </p><p>Peter Lukas is a lighthouse keeper. He comes from a family of what one might deem the very elite of lighthouse keepers, except that they haven't held the actual station in centuries--too busy handling the fortune, attending soirees and drafting their wills to insure not a penny is misplaced when they inevitably flake away from their patron and die. Devout though he may be, it was that, in fact - the wills - that prompted Peter to turn to the lighthouse; seeing a fortune dedicated to children he has no intention of having left him ready to chew off his own hands to escape his chains. </p><p>And so he did. </p><p>His family, of course, had had no way of denying him the position that his ancestors had held so long ago. It had been waiting for him, some might say.</p><p>The lighthouse is a tall, grim spire that looks as if someone had pinched its top with a godly hand and pulled up, elongating and thinning it out until it reached its peak, where a giant white light glares with piercing beams into the thick grey fog hanging over the sea. The light is not of anything constructed with human hands; it floats, suspended, between several metal pikes, set against a myriad of small mirrors with a large blackout behind it. It's round, like a star, and brighter than anything Peter has ever seen; brighter still since he has taken up the work, though he has never admitted it, even to himself. It's a beautiful, undying thing, a beacon in the black night set in a glass cage, which it is Peter's duty to maintain. </p><p>During his first few weeks, people from the nearest village - nearest, that's to say almost two hours away - had brought him gifts. Homemade bread, cheese, tiny, angular jars of jam, wine--even a knitted scarf. He shouldn't have blamed them for their kindness, he suspected they simply didn't know how the lighthouse worked--what powered it--but he had anyway. He never opened the door. </p><p>He lives simply, in a room inside the lighthouse itself, below the level with the clockworks. He has a small bed with a dark chest beside it, awkward against the rounded wall, a faded yellow-wood writing desk, and a shelf packed with books left here by the previous keeper, which have gathered a substantial layer of dust; Peter has not touched them since his first day on the job. </p><p>The cabinet that contains his clothes has a single candle in an old, blackened holder standing on top of it, an expensive metal lighter next to it, and--as far as a cursory glance might yield--that is the extent of his possessions. </p><p>Well - this is not entirely true. There is a candlestick telephone on his desk, with a bone-white transmitter and an elegant brown receiver slung over the hook. The phone is a new addition, installed here about a month ago, and not once used since; embarrassing as it is, Peter wouldn't know where to begin with it, and anyway--it's probably meant for incoming calls. </p><p>Beneath his room there are more levels, each more makeshift than the other. There is a faux kitchen, a bathroom--a place for storage and supplies, next to some thick, coiling pipes which went out of use centuries ago. </p><p>His favourite place to pass the time is the kitchen. He does not cook, not really, but there is a small table there and a single chair, and he uses that spot to play chess. It's quiet, pleasant, and peaceful. It's everything he has ever wanted in life. </p><p>He is in the middle of a game when he hears the familiar stutter of an engine break through the roar of the waves.</p><p>For a moment, he is confused. Either supplies are early, or he has lost count of the days - and the latter, albeit not particularly frightening, is something Administration would disapprove of. He double-checks the calendar and scowls when he hears noises outside. </p><p>He often regrets that Martin eventually overcame his childlike fear of the elusive, frightening lightkeeper. That is not to say Martin is comfortable around him, or even calm, but they have fallen into a routine and routines have the capacity to make anything feel normal. Peter is not picky. As he trudges heavily down the stairs, he hears the distinct sound of a metal vehicle door slamming shut - and by the time he reaches the entrance to the lighthouse, Martin's red head of hair is already walking towards him, a cardboard box held in his arms. </p><p>"Peter!" he says, glancing over the top of his delivery, "Package for you." </p><p>Peter regards him, caught in the doorway of his lighthouse. </p><p>"I wasn't expecting you so soon." </p><p>"From the Office," Martin explains, only the faintest hint of a stutter in his voice, "It's just... a little extra. Here you go." </p><p>Peter takes the package from his trembling, exhausted arms and moves to leave. </p><p>"Wait," Martin calls out, stopping him. When Peter turns, he looks like he deeply regrets the decision. "There's one other thing." </p><p>Peter pauses. "Is there?" </p><p>"There's a new overseer," Martin fumbles with his overalls, "You should be getting the call in the evening. I thought you might appreciate the warning." </p><p>Peter perks up. "I do! Thank you, Martin," he puts on a smile that he knows does nothing to set Martin at ease. "I suppose I will be seeing you soon." </p><p>"Yeah," the young man wrings out his hands some more and turns around, heading for his small grey truck. "See you." </p><p>Peter watches him until he is but a silver blot among the evenly swaying golden fields. Then, he locks the door to the lighthouse and takes the package up to his storage room, setting it down under the stone wall. </p><p>He flips out his pocket knife and cuts along the tape. Inside, he finds three navy blue jumpers knitted from something that heats his hands just touching it, and - hidden between them for safe travel - a small radio made from dark wood and coppery metal. Underneath, on the very bottom of the box, there is a card. </p><p>He had thought, initially, that the package was a bonus, or something larger-scale, but the company font and hastily scrawled signature - E. Bouchard, OVS - suggest that this is most definitely to do with the recent change in management. He raises an eyebrow and shrugs, taking the jumpers up to his bedroom and leaving the radio in the kitchen. He does not particularly enjoy being bribed, but he won't say no to music and warmth, and in that capacity the new overseer has scored some points. Peter decides he will pick up the phone. </p><p>As the sun slowly dips into the sea, and the evening sky turns from orange to indigo, Peter waits patiently by the transmitter. Annoyance creeps over his arms and settles in the nape of his neck; he rakes his nails through his beard and tries to motivate himself. He is not a young man, though even in his youth he doubts he was keen on change. Through his small bedroom window, he watches the waves lap at the rocks--shy, little licks. </p><p>The phone buzzes. </p><p>With a sigh, he picks up the receiver and holds it to his ear. Silence, at first. </p><p>"Hello?" asks an unfamiliar voice. </p><p>"Hello," Peter replies, slightly put off. </p><p>"Is this the lightkeeper for lighthouse--," a faint rustle of papers, "19-9-12-5-14-3-5?" </p><p>"Yes," he looks out the window again. </p><p>"Peter Lukas?" </p><p>There is something strange about hearing his full name. He realises nobody has called him a Lukas in months. </p><p>"Yes," he says again. </p><p>"Right," the voice warms a bit, "Wonderful. This is your overseer calling, I will be monitoring your work for the foreseeable future. I will call you once every two weeks, and we will chat for about ten minutes. Does that sound good?" </p><p>No--no, it does not sound good. It sounds like a nightmare. Peter closes his eyes and struggles to put together a reasonable answer. </p><p>"Is that really necessary?" he asks pleasantly, "Might I ask why you're making this change, up in Administration?" </p><p>The person on the other end sucks in a breath through his teeth. </p><p>"Well, it's a rather unpleasant business," he says in a tone that mimics care, but stops just short, "There have been some concerns regarding the lightkeepers, namely to do with mental health and safety." </p><p>He speaks like some cross between a professor and a receptionist, polite and yet tinged with poison. </p><p>"What exactly does that mean?" Peter asks, in his own malevolently kind tone. </p><p>He feels, now, as though he has met a kindred soul--and he despises him. </p><p>"Studies have shown that extended periods of solitude, as originally designed, were leaving the lightkeepers more... numb, or mad, if you will, than actually lonely," some of the pretense drops from the overseer's tone, "The lights were beginning to wane. Of course--yours, I'm told, is stronger than it has ever been." </p><p>That tickles. </p><p>"Just let me do my work in peace." </p><p>"I'd love to, but protocol is protocol." The overseer sounds like the kind of man who will never tire of saying that. "So, Mr. Lukas. Tell me how you're doing." </p><p>"I was doing perfectly well," Peter says, but catches himself. Perhaps, if he does well enough in the first call - or the first few - the overseer will cut him loose sooner. "This is where I am meant to be. The Forsaken runs in the blood for us." </p><p>"Yes, the strength of your light will attest to that," the man confirms, "But how are you?" </p><p>"I'm well," Peter shrugs.</p><p>"How do you feel? Have you experienced any feelings of..." a subtler rustle of paper, "Numbness, pointlessness, depression, or crushing misery?" </p><p>Peter considers that, and lies as carefully and easily as he always has. "No, I have not." </p><p>"Do you think about killing yourself?" </p><p>He dislikes the sound of that. "These are very personal questions." </p><p>"That's not a 'no', Mr. Lukas," the overseer says, sounding bored.</p><p>"No, then. I don't. This is where I want to be," Peter picks up the transmitter and brings it close to his mouth so that he can lean back in his chair. "This is a life I am pleased with. Why would I want to end it?" </p><p>There's a pause. "Very fair. Do you get satisfaction out of your work?" </p><p>"Not satisfaction." Peter frowns. "Contentment." </p><p>"Hmm. Well, that's the paperwork," there's a louder flutter of papers and Peter is struck with the mental image of the stranger tossing a booklet over his shoulder. He smiles at the thought. </p><p>"Sounds like you have your work cut out for you, Mr. Lukas." </p><p>"Peter," he corrects, "Please, call me Peter." </p><p>"Very well. Peter." He sounds overly cheerful, like a bubbly waitress. "As lovely as this has been, I won't steal the rest of your evening. Oh, and remember--if you ever feel like killing yourself, don't." </p><p>Peter sighs. "You're not very funny." </p><p>"My humour isn't for you," the overseer chuckles, "Have a good night." </p><p>The phone clicks and crackles and Peter is left alone again, holding a dead receiver to his ear. </p><p>He gently sets the phone down on his desk and feels the solitude lower itself onto his chest and settle there like a sleepy cat. </p><p>What curiosity has sprouted in his mind regarding the mysterious E. Bouchard, OVS, dwindles in the silence. He doesn't feel like devoting any more time to another person, and so the rest of his evening (and part of his night) is spent by the candle, trying to figure out how to make the radio work. </p><p>*</p><p>"Well," Martin turns the wooden box in his hands, the antenna poking out awkwardly to the side, "this is a bit too fancy for me. Sorry. I could take it with me, see if I can get someone else to--"</p><p>Peter shakes his head. Martin quickly hands it back to him, careful not to make him step foot outside of the lighthouse. </p><p>"Thanks anyway." Peter sets the radio on a shelf next to the door. "If nothing else, it's a hobby. I hope I didn't keep you." </p><p>Martin squirms at the tone and forces a smile. "Don't worry about it. Well, uh, here's your stuff." </p><p>He picks the package, much bigger than the last one, out of the dewy grass and passes it to him. It's wet on the underside, slippery. Peter strains to carry it a few steps in, where it's not directly under his feet, and pushes it aside with his boot. </p><p>"I will see you next month, I suppose," Martin pulls his cap down over his eyes and kicks at the grass, "Unless they send you more... extra stuff, that is." </p><p>He laughs nervously and tips his cap, heading back to his truck. </p><p>"Martin," Peter stops him, leaning against the doorframe, "Have you met the new overseer?" </p><p>"Elias?" Martin turns on his heel, "Oh, yeah. He's..." he visibly struggles to find a compliment, "...good at his job. It's not easy to find a good overseer. Takes a toll on you, apparently." He stammers. "Not that what you do isn't hard." </p><p>"I see," Peter drags his hand down the doorframe. </p><p>He doesn't consider what he does 'service', though a lighthouse is, by definition, a public good. They are not advised to consider that part of it too deeply unless in the context of being separated from humanity as some sort of sacrifice, a necessary pain. </p><p>He has never thought of it as sacrifice. </p><p>"Well, bye," Martin says, and he's already heading for the truck, trying to get away. </p><p>This time, Peter lets him.</p><p>The fields are vast and empty. Nothing but sea in one direction, nothing but gold in the other; maintained by those of the Open. </p><p>He locks his lighthouse. </p><p>*</p><p>The new jumper is as warm as expected. He doesn't have to wear a coat over it, sitting with his legs hanging over the edge of the gallery, the light beaming white from behind him into the early evening gloom.</p><p>The Lantern Gallery isn't half as grand as the name suggests; just a small patch of metal flooring stuck to the side of the lighthouse, only there to ensure the glass panes housing the light can be thoroughly cleaned. </p><p>The wind swats at his hair and roars in his ears, and he knows he can't spend too long up here lest he somehow catch a cold--but he can't help it sometimes. His feet dangle freely above a dark abyss, the waves glimmering gold in the last rays of sunlight; nothing is holding him back except a flimsy railing with rusted chains. He leans his forehead against the cold metal pole and breathes in the smell of the sea. The floor is cold under his hands, the thermos of coffee stood beside him slowly losing the last of its steam. He picks up the cup and takes a sip, frowning at the taste. </p><p>He hears the faint noise of the telephone coming from underneath the wind and water. With a groan, he pulls himself to his feet and takes the thermos with him down to his bedroom, where the phone is buzzing for attention. </p><p>He sniffles and sits at his writing desk, chill-numb fingers closing over the receiver. He brings it to his ear. </p><p>"Lighthouse 19-9-12-5-14-3-5," the same voice as two weeks prior. Easily recognisable; something about how it slides off the speaker's tongue, how it seems to reverberate despite not being all that deep. </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>"Peter. Hello." </p><p>"Elias," he says in kind, "Was it?" </p><p>There is an extremely satisfying pause.</p><p>"Ah. I suppose Martin told you my name," he mutters, "That boy really gets on my nerves. I apologize for the indiscretion." </p><p>Peter cocks an eyebrow and sits back. </p><p>"Indiscretion?" </p><p>"I wouldn't want to impede your work," the overseer--Elias, rather--sounds irritated. "I had thought it best to withhold anything that might cause a personal bond to develop." </p><p>Peter has to bite down on a laugh. "You hold yourself in high regard, Overseer."</p><p>"Not at all. Well, not any more than is justified," Elias sighs and he hears fabric crinkle. Maybe he's taking off a jacket, or just shifting in his seat. "It's human nature. We grow attached to others with almost frightening ease." </p><p>Peter watches the last slither of red disappear, leaving the sky a darkened shade of blue. </p><p>"Do we? I've never had that problem." He clicks his tongue. "I think you just revealed something about yourself, Overseer, rather than humanity." </p><p>Elias laughs. It's a hushed, soft sound, not as rich or hearty as one might expect. </p><p>"I have to say, you're much more talkative than I thought you would be." </p><p>"Being a servant of the Forsaken doesn't make me immune to boredom," Peter decides to give up on the ten minute limit and kicks his feet up onto the desk. "Or blind to obvious deflection. Are you feeling lonely, Overseer?" </p><p>Elias laughs again, louder, almost maniacally. </p><p>"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he says when he catches his breath, "Nobody has spoken to me that way in a while, that's all. Perhaps I have been feeling lonely. I do still believe that we are built on connection," his voice falls to a more thoughtful, slower timbre. "Not eternal, or even long-lasting, but rooted in knowing others. Discovering others. And, once it is done--that's that. We cast them aside." </p><p>"Brief attachments," Peter confirms, "Until you get bored." </p><p>"Precisely." </p><p>"Never found anyone worth your time, then?" </p><p>"No, and not counting on it." Elias clears his throat. "But enough about me. How have you been, Peter?" </p><p>"Oh, fine," Peter shrugs, settling in more comfortably into his chair, "I like the jumpers. Very warm." </p><p>"I'm glad to hear it. And the radio?" </p><p>He glances over at the useless hunk of metal on his desk. </p><p>"Haven't gotten it to work yet." </p><p>"In three weeks? Goodness."</p><p>"I've never been good with technology." </p><p>"Well, maybe I can help. Let me take a look." </p><p>Peter is momentarily baffled. "Sorry?" </p><p>Silence. Then, quieter: </p><p>"That's to say... describe the issue to me." </p><p>They spend the rest of the evening going back and forth over the phone, the receiver pushed between Peter's ear and his shoulder, his hands busily turning the radio in all directions and angles as the voice in the phone talks of buttons and dials. Elias, apparently, has vast knowledge of all kinds of things - not surprising, but Peter has to admit it's handy, especially when after only an hour of bickering and eye-rolling the radio chitters to life. </p><p>"I really do have to go now," Elias' voice comes from a slight distance, "Have a good night." </p><p>The line goes dead and Peter sets the receiver back on its hook, finding his ear aching from the press of it. </p><p>The radio is whispering something about a weather forecast and Administration's latest accomplishment with the new underground railway, so Peter quickly turns the dial until all he hears is shaky static. </p><p>He likes the sound of it. He lets it play in the background as he heats up some canned soup for supper and eats it alone. </p><p>*</p><p>Four months. </p><p>Elias, Peter has gauged, is something of a 'big deal' in Administration. </p><p>He acts it, certainly, but Peter has met many people who act it and nothing else. Elias is an overseer, yes, but what he has neglected to mention is that he has been an overseer since well before even the oldest of Peter's relatives remember. His exact age is a mystery. He sounds young enough; Peter had unknowingly placed him at forty at the most, and even that was pushing it. He imagines him to be a scrawny, thin kind of person, narrow at the shoulders and bony in that way only bureaucrats and mathematicians can be. He probably wears a lot of brown and grey, always a suit (not necessarily a three piece; his job is mostly sitting around, seems a waste). Maybe a quirky tie pin, just to keep things 'interesting'. Peter snorts a laugh just thinking about him. </p><p>*</p><p>His family writes to him only to inform him that someone has died, and the news is always late - sometimes by a month, sometimes just a few days, but it is always delivered by Martin. This doesn't matter; he cannot attend the funerals, they know it as well as he does. </p><p>Evan dies in a stormy, windy month. Peter imagines the rain pouring over his headstone. He finds out about the death well after Evan's been buried, of course, he understands that much; sees it even before he reads the letter, written plainly on Martin's sorry face. Martin knows what the letters are for, by now.</p><p>Peter doesn't hate him. Not really. Sometimes, it's just hard not to hate everyone. </p><p>He locks himself in his lighthouse and burns the letter in the sink. He tries not to keep too much litter around. In the evening, he digs out a dusty bottle of wine and pours himself a cup, then pours that (and the rest of the bottle) down the drain. </p><p>He does not drink.</p><p>The phone buzzes. </p><p>"Elias?" he asks the transmitter. </p><p>"Sorry," an unexpectedly different voice, gruff and stuffy, says. "Were you expecting a call? This is the Office, trying to reach Lighthouse 19-9-12..." </p><p>"Yes, that's me, Peter Lukas," Peter squeezes the bridge of his nose. "This isn't a good time. Who is this?"</p><p>"The Office," the voice repeats, "Archivist speaking." </p><p>Peter folds in on himself and gently drags a hand over his hair. He waits for the inevitable continuation with his chest sunken like a shipwreck. </p><p>"I believe you have recently suffered a personal loss," the Archivist says calmly, "Your nephew. Please recount the details for the Office." </p><p>Peter clenches a fist. "Why?" </p><p>"For the general benefit and sensitive information storage," the Archivist explains softly, "Tell me about your loss." </p><p>"I barely knew him," Peter finds himself saying, and fear grips him as he realises he can't stop. "He was just a child when I saw him last. It's a shame what my family does to children." </p><p>"What did your family do to you, Mr. Lukas?" </p><p>Peter hates answering questions. A splitting headache cuts his thoughts short and as the tension builds, he wants nothing more than to speak, to answer, to spew anything just to get it to stop--but he doesn't want to do that, he doesn't, he won't--</p><p>"Jon?" someone asks, in the distance. "Jon, what are you doing?" </p><p>There's some shuffling and the pain withdraws like the tide, quick and smooth. </p><p>"Quite enough of that," Elias' voice, louder now, says into the transmitter. "Peter? I'll call you from my office. Don't go anywhere." </p><p>Funny. </p><p>A few minutes pass as Elias presumably makes his way to his desk through whichever headquarters they're currently in. The phone buzzes. </p><p>"You're just about stubborn enough to get yourself killed over a simple question, aren't you?" Elias sighs on the other end. "People don't usually resist, but I should've known you'd attempt it." Disapproval creeps into his tone. "I thought you weren't keen on suicide."</p><p>Peter hums. "I am not. I didn't know he was trying to kill me." </p><p>"He wasn't. He's just..." Elias groans in annoyance, "New."</p><p>Family. He asked about Peter's family. He closes his eyes. </p><p>"I heard you've been around for a while now, yourself," he tries, twirling the cord around his finger. </p><p>Elias chuckles. "You have to stop finding things out about me." </p><p>"I was told you're well over a century old." </p><p>"Two, in fact." He sounds proud. "It's not something Administration is happy with, though. I don't exactly prolong my life through moral means." </p><p>"Nobody ever does." Peter shrugs. "I didn't know Administration cared."</p><p>"Oh, they do. Trust me, my particular strategy can be a bureaucratic nightmare, what with the issue of life insurance and... relatives. Either way, Peter, I was actually late with my call tonight, and for that I apologize. I was supposed to prepare you for Jon." </p><p>"So..." Peter inhales, "I still have to do that?" </p><p>There is a prolonged pause.</p><p>"I can make it so that you don't." </p><p>He feels his heart pound, and calms it irritably. He is not a teenager, he does not appreciate gestures. He doesn't believe in them.</p><p>"What do you want in return?" </p><p>"Nothing." </p><p>"Come on, Elias," Peter sighs heavily. "Try that again." </p><p>"All right," he admits, "A favour." </p><p>"You know my only resource is money." </p><p>"Of course. Why not?" </p><p>"A bribe," Peter says incredulously, "You're telling me to bribe you? Oh, dear."</p><p>Elias makes a small noise in his throat. </p><p>"I don't like that word. Bribe. It just so happens that we are rather underfunded here at the Office, and I could use the help. If you choose not to," he sounds almost playful, "I will make sure Jon leaves you alone regardless. That's a promise." </p><p>Peter smiles despite himself. </p><p>"I'd love to test that." </p><p>"By all means. Now, I did have some questions prepared," Elias sounds tired, suddenly, "Let's get through them. It's been a few months. Do you feel these calls have been benefitting or impeding you?" </p><p>Peter thinks on that carefully. On the one hand, he knows the answer; he doesn't need the calls to feel perfectly Lonely, and he knows it, but on the other--he can't deny the pang of something quietly bitter, just north of regret, when he puts down the receiver. </p><p>"Hmm? That's a very interesting silence," Elias says on the other end, "But I do need to know." </p><p>"Well, let me think," Peter puts the receiver to his other ear and looks out the window. The waves are slow tonight, steady. "Neither, I would say. What would happen if I said I felt neutral about them?" </p><p>"Neutral. Apathetic," Elias confirms, sounding displeased, "That would mean they're not doing anything one way or the other, and I would be inclined to stop them entirely." </p><p>Peter tries not to smile at the faux chill in that. </p><p>"And what if I said they help?" he asks, once he has stewed long enough in Elias' irritation. "More calls? Or just a continuation of our current arrangement, once every two weeks?" </p><p>A pause. "I... don't know. I would leave that to your judgement." </p><p>"Really? You'd set aside even more time for me?" </p><p>"I am an overseer, Peter," Elias sighs, "This is what I do. Don't worry about me; if you want more calls, you will have more calls." </p><p>Peter nods, chasing the high of being abandoned, over and over again. </p><p>"Once a week, then," he says. "Is that all right with you?" </p><p>"That sounds lovely," Elias replies, a bit quietly. "Oh, and... My condolences." </p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>"Would you like to tell me about him?" </p><p>Peter smiles. "No." </p><p>What a privilege, when Elias doesn't insist.</p><p>He writes a letter to Nathaniel Lukas regarding patronage over one particular branch of Administration a few weeks later. Martin is tasked with taking it to the post office during his next visit to the lighthouse.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. II</h2></a>
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    <p>Five more months pass like it's nothing. Like a ship on the horizon. There one moment, gone the next. </p><p>He cleans the lantern more often than it's strictly necessary, given that the light inside of it doesn't burn with any palpable flame. He could probably put his hand right through it, if he wanted, though he avoids that--childishly unsure of what might happen. </p><p>He washes and polishes the mirrors, the structure holding them up, and the metal platform, listening to the static hiss of the radio at his feet. Sometimes, a word gets through about rain or politics. Around noon, he goes out onto the gallery to wash the windows encasing the lantern, the hardest of the work. He finds himself taking his coat off in the bright sunlight; he hangs it over the rail, and spends the next few hours tirelessly maintaining the uppermost level, splashing suds over the edge of the gritty rusted platform. </p><p>He doesn't notice the wind pick up; he hears a faint flutter, then the sound of fabric shifting, and by the time he turns the coat is already sailing over the rail, falling to the ground far below. He swears and leans over, only to find it in a heap on the grass, a few metres away from his doorstep. </p><p>He runs his hand over his face and groans. Martin won't be coming by for another three weeks. God. </p><p>He mopily finishes his work in the gallery and brings his tools and towels back inside just as the sun is beginning to set. Flipping on the lights, he scours the entire lighthouse for some kind of stick or hook that he might use to drag his coat into reaching distance. He finds an old fishing rod - one of the previous lightkeepers had developed a habit of 'fishing' from the gallery, trying to catch seagulls - and a mop, then heads down to the lowest level. </p><p>It's not a dignified procedure. The coat fell rather further than he had originally thought, and not even his best attempts come even close to reaching it - the fishing rod, his best chance, has no string; the mop is just too short. </p><p>He spends the evening perched on his doorstep, staring at the coat in the grass. So close, yet infinitely far away. </p><p>Well. At least he would get to complain to Elias about it in three days.</p><p>* </p><p>Before that, a group of kids come running along the dust road. He calls out to them, but they only stop for a moment before running away. So it goes.</p><p>*</p><p>"Really?" the voice on the other end of the line is soft, faintly amused. </p><p>"You said you wouldn't laugh," Peter warns. </p><p>"I'm not. I don't particularly relish the thought of you dying of a cold," Elias hums. That's one thing Peter quite likes about him - when he talks, he always manages to sound like he's giving you his full attention. Peter doesn't doubt he has other things on his mind, and he's probably filling out paperwork, or playing with something on his desk, as they speak. But he sounds like he's listening. He really does. </p><p>"Are you sure you don't have anything else?" </p><p>"I won't die," Peter raises an eyebrow, "It's just... a very noticeable reminder that I can't leave the lighthouse." </p><p>"Hmm. This bothers you?" </p><p>"It didn't use to. It doesn't, normally." </p><p>"Tell you what," Elias exhales, "I'll send Martin to get it for you tomorrow." </p><p>Peter drags his fingers along the lines of the wood. </p><p>"Thanks." </p><p>"Don't mention it. You did do me a favour with that slight funding issue," he reminds, "I haven't thanked Nathaniel Lukas personally, fearing it might put you in an uncomfortable position, but I am very grateful." </p><p>"Count yourself among the lucky. My uncle does not share my..." Peter clicks his tongue, "Friendly and approachable disposition." </p><p>Elias laughs. "I'd be surprised if he did. You know, I've never told you this, but I used to know the Lukases." </p><p>Peter shifts. "How long ago?" </p><p>"A long time." Elias sighs wistfully. "They're all dead by now." </p><p>He hesitates. </p><p>"Did you know my parents?" </p><p>"No," Elias laughs, "No, Peter, it was centuries ago. I didn't know you as a child, or anything quite like that." </p><p>"Hm. Heaven forbid you come across as creepy," Peter snorts, "Bodyhopper." </p><p>He drags his finger through the crease of his eyelid and smiles to himself, wondering. </p><p>Elias chuckles quietly.</p><p>"You're... nothing like Lukases I knew. Aside from the obvious. And your face, of course." </p><p>Peter reflexively touches the edge of his jaw. "You know what I look like?" </p><p>"Naturally. Seagulls stop by your lighthouse quite often, and I can see through any eye I choose. Oh, and there's a picture with your file."</p><p>He feels that acutely, sharp in his chest.</p><p>He has entertained ideas of what Elias might look like, before; in the past months, that image has shifted slightly. He's imagined him slightly rounded around the middle, with the first hint of work-stressed grey at the temples. A man who's lived his life behind a desk. An elegant, posh man.</p><p>It's all guesswork, of course.</p><p>He takes a breath. </p><p>"I didn't know you could do that, Elias." </p><p>"Keep it a secret. I wasn't supposed to tell you," he grumbles, "Not until the Board made their minds up on whether it would make the lightkeepers feel more lonely, or less." </p><p>Peter accepts that with a slight nod, just for himself. </p><p>"Do I resemble any of my ancestors, then?" he asks, succeeding in making himself sound nonchalant despite the way his heart is pounding. </p><p>"Oh, I shouldn't tell you," Elias mutters. </p><p>"Tease." </p><p>"Peter," he says, not sounding quite as amused anymore, "Your face--yes, perhaps. But knowing you... knowing you is something rather new." </p><p>Peter is intrigued. "I suppose, coming from you, that's quite the compliment." </p><p>"It is." Elias exhales, as if brushing off some tension. "Is there anything else Martin should bring tomorrow, while he's at it?" </p><p>Peter hesitates, disoriented by the sudden change of subject. "No, nothing I can think of." </p><p>"Well. Do try not to drop your coat again," he says briskly, "Until next time, Peter." </p><p>The line goes dead. </p><p>Peter doesn't like the way his name sounds, spoken that way. It sounds... sweet. </p><p>Martin gets to the lighthouse early next morning, his beat-up grey truck still running in the background as he approaches. He has a basket with him, despite Peter's insistence he didn't need anything, and there's a smile on his face. </p><p>"So," he says, "How about that coat you dropped?" </p><p>Peter tries not to groan and points him in the right direction. Martin happily gives him the basket - 'for you' - and walks off into the grass, searching. </p><p>Grudgingly, Peter lifts the fabric covering the basket's contents. Inside, he finds some fresh bread and a generous amount of fruit - apples, mostly - and, off to the side, a note. He shoots Martin a cursory glance, then opens it with his free hand - it says, in extremely neat, slightly feminine handwriting, <em>Don't get scurvy. - E. B. </em></p><p>Peter raises an eyebrow and lowers the fabric again just in time for Martin to return, bearing the coat triumphantly in his hand. It's wet with dew and crumpled awkwardly, but one night outside has not done it much harm. Peter takes it back gratefully.</p><p>"Thank you."</p><p>"Oh, no problem," Martin shrugs. </p><p>"You came all the way out here for a silly thing," he says, with a smile, "I do appreciate it." </p><p>Martin shrugs again, more awkwardly this time. "Yeah, I get paid extra for deliveries and such, so... I don't really mind, you know?" </p><p>Peter furrows his brow. "Who pays for it?" </p><p>"You know, Administration," Martin waves his hands in a vaguely spooky way, then returns them to his pockets. "If an overseer approves it, it gets done."</p><p>"Right. Well," Peter sets the basket down on his side of the doorstep, "Thank Elias from me." </p><p>Martin nods. </p><p>"You two get on, don't you?" he asks, a bit hesitantly. Peter's face must have grown clouded, because he quickly backpedals. "I mean, that's great. That's good. As long as it doesn't, you know, interfere with..." </p><p>He makes a gesture that's supposed to encompass the lighthouse. </p><p>Peter looks up at the light, then back at Martin. </p><p>"I'm not sure yet," he admits, "You see, Martin, I'm not like most lightkeepers." </p><p>"Yes, I-I noticed," Martin stammers. </p><p>"I'm not a willing victim of the Forsaken," he continues, though his reluctance to share that about himself is wrestling with his desire to process it aloud, "I am part of it. One with it. And... these talks... it's difficult to say what they're doing."</p><p>Martin listens to him with an expression of concern on his face. </p><p>"Well, it's a little late for that, right?" he asks, finally, "You're on the phone for hours every week." </p><p>Peter blinks. "Hours?" </p><p>Martin looks at him strangely, nodding. </p><p>"Well, I ought to be on my way," he mutters after a moment, then says his goodbyes and heads back to his truck.</p><p>Peter is left alone on his doorstep, unable to step over the threshold and feel the earth give slightly under his boot; unable to touch the grass with his hands, lie down with a view of the sky. </p><p>He feels something tighten in his chest as he picks up the note again, staring at the handwriting. </p><p>Far above him, the light in the lantern flickers. </p><p>*</p><p>There is a storm. Rain and hail pound against the windows and the metal walls of the lighthouse; it feels like being trapped in a can inside a bag of marbles. Lightning strikes the tip of the spire once, twice, melts along the grounding system and sinks into the wet earth. </p><p>It's a rare occurrence that Peter finds himself actually stressed before one of the calls. He's ready half an hour before, sitting and waiting with the receiver to his ear. He keeps wincing, expecting the light to flicker again every time the name flashes through his thoughts--and worst of all, sometimes it does.</p><p>The rain is loud. The sea is loud. </p><p>His heart is heavy and his mind feels too full. He covers his eyes with one hand and desperately taps his foot, waiting for the familiar buzz of a line coming alive. </p><p>The stress has properly taken a toll on him by the time the call comes through. </p><p>"Lighthouse 19-9-12-5-14-3-5?" </p><p>He is calm. </p><p>"We shouldn't talk anymore." </p><p>Elias lets out a disgruntled noise on the other end. "What's this about, Peter? If you've grown uncomfortable with my... ability... then you should know I've got far more interesting things to keep an eye on than--"</p><p>"It's not about you," he says, cutting him off, "It's about me." </p><p>A short silence. </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"There's a problem with the light." </p><p>Elias' voice is hollow. "Describe it for me, please."</p><p>"It's going out. It's... flickering." </p><p>A longer silence. </p><p>"Well, no need for the dramatics, Peter," he says, "We will figure it out." </p><p>"No. I'm going to figure it out," Peter replies, "On my own. I need you to stop calling." </p><p>"Peter." Clipped, nervous. "Peter, wait. Listen to me. You have to tell me what's happening, or else I can't report it. So... please, calm down," he inhales, "And if this is the last conversation we ever have, then God damn it, let's have it." </p><p>Peter suddenly doesn't know what to say. He doesn't particularly want to say anything, except things that are painful and cancerous; things that got him here in the first place. He has never known anyone who cut into him so easily, so smoothly; like a hot knife through butter. </p><p>"I'm not going to blame you, Elias," he says, feeling calmer, but also number. "I'm too old for that."</p><p>"Why would you blame me at all?" he sounds quiet. Like he knows, just wants it said. </p><p>"You made me feel--," Peter frowns around the words, "Cared for." </p><p>Quiet again. </p><p>"You don't have to believe me," Elias says, "But I am sorry." He chuckles, no mirth in it. "I couldn't help myself." </p><p>Peter smiles and scratches his beard, turning his head away. </p><p>"Hopefully, you'll miss me," Elias adds, "That's how it works, isn't it?" </p><p>"You know it isn't. Not for me." </p><p>"Well, then, what can I do?" </p><p>"You know what my family did," he chuckles a little, smiles, "Don't you? You know everything." </p><p>"You think I'll be that generous?" Elias whispers, "You think I'll lie to you? For you? Tell you you're a failed experiment? Just another lightkeeper I have to ring to make sure they haven't offed themselves? I am not kind, Peter," he says, "I am not generous. I do not hurt myself for the sake of others. I will not tell you that I don't care for you." </p><p>"How can you say you care for me, and then turn around and refuse to do that for me?" </p><p>Elias scoffs.</p><p>"I'm egotistical, then. Take it or leave it." </p><p>Peter shakes his head. "You're despicable." </p><p>"I thought you weren't going to blame me." </p><p>He covers his face with his free hand and feels the blood rushing to his forehead, his pulse pounding in his temples. </p><p>"Don't call me again." </p><p>"Peter," Elias says, with an air of finality to it, "I... genuinely enjoyed talking to you." </p><p>Peter puts down the receiver and turns on the radio, losing himself in the static as he sinks into his bed.</p><p>Overhead, the light continues to spin and stutter like a dying star, until - deep in the night - it finally goes out with a faint hiss. </p><p>*</p><p>The Office does not wait long where the safety of ships is concerned. A van arrives two days later, hammered together from grey metal just like Martin's truck, and two figures get out of it. They wade through the soggy grass, left almost a wetland after the storm - one striding confidently in rubber boots, the other awkwardly stomping along behind them. </p><p>As they near the door, Peter unlocks it and pulls it open with a creak of old hinges. The wooden flooring at the threshold is swollen with water damage. It was a bad storm. </p><p>The taller of the two is a muscular woman dressed in denim overalls, her head shaved and tattoos running up both her arms - and one on her temple, of a small daisy. She has a toolkit, which she has now put down on the ground to light a cigarette. She offers one to Peter, but he shakes his head. </p><p>The man beside her is shorter, though not lanky, dressed in a dark olive suit and holding a beat-up old leather briefcase. He looks extremely out of place with his dyed brown hair (likely to hide some grey - he must be in his forties) and a pair of pretty leather gloves in his other hand; his polished dress shoes are dirty at the tips. He appears to be missing whichever dusty office he crawled out of, and keeps looking anywhere but at Peter's eyes. </p><p>"Maintenance," the woman introduces them, picking up her toolkit, "Mind if we go take a look?" </p><p>Peter steps aside, gesturing for them to come in.</p><p>"You can take a walk, if you want," the woman says over her shoulder, puffing smoke, "It's not getting any deader." </p><p>Peter doesn't budge. "I'd like to come with you, if you wouldn't mind."</p><p>"We don't. Come on." </p><p>She makes her way up the stairs with a clatter, loud in a way he never noticed before. He feels like he's going a bit insane, watching two other people in his lighthouse - it's as if someone were stomping around inside his body. He feels vaguely nauseous. </p><p>"Yep," the woman, who he's dubbed Daisy on account of the tattoo, points at the empty lantern and puts her hands on her hips. "It's been blown clean out. Gone. You're out of a job, Lukas. Sorry." </p><p>Peter keeps his voice level. "You mean you can't fix it?" </p><p>"First of all, I wouldn't be fixing it," she turns to him as her colleague continues to analyse the lantern, "You would. But, since it's clean gone, you'd need at least a year to build up your..." she gestures to him, "You know. You have to stoke a fire. If it goes out, you have to start over, that's how it works. That's what you're going to have to do." </p><p>Peter doesn't allow the gravity of that to sink in. </p><p>"You know who I am," he says, trying to keep still, "You know... this doesn't happen to my family."</p><p>"It did to you," Daisy shrugs, "Look. I'll admit, this sort of thing doesn't happen often--to anyone. Even the numb ones, they... either kill themselves, or continue to feed the Forsaken, even if their light is dimmer than optimal." She looks at the lantern, then back at him. "I only work the clockworks, Lukas. For the head stuff, you're going to have to talk to an overseer, or the Archivist. Point is, this lighthouse is out of commission. You're done." </p><p>She puts it so simply. In another moment, on another day, he might've liked her. She seems such an honest, straightforward person. </p><p>He feels nothing. </p><p>"What am I supposed to do?" </p><p>"Well," something might've softened around her eyes, or he could be imagining it, "Pack your stuff, and Martin will come pick you up in the evening. We have to get back to the Office and find you a replacement." </p><p>Simple, clean-cut. Peter wants to be like that. He wants to be able to do that. </p><p>He follows them numbly down the stairs, watches as Daisy puts her cigarette out on his doorframe and tosses the butt into the grass. </p><p>"You can leave now," she reassures, and he catches himself standing on the threshold, "You can go for a walk. Just don't do anything stupid, all right?" </p><p>She gives him something that vaguely resembles a smile - it's fake, unpracticed, like she's doing it for a photo - and then she's off to the van, toolkit bobbing in her grip. </p><p>Peter is suddenly filled with a deep, simmering anger, like pressure building underneath a solid stone wall. It will not break, that's for certain, but the pain is there, sharp and overwhelming, just underneath the surface. He doesn't want her pitying smiles, or the dismissive attitude; he wants the man to face him, instead of skulking around. </p><p>The man, who has not moved from the steps of the lighthouse. </p><p>Peter looks at him, and he finally looks at Peter, and there is nothing uncertain or cowardly about his eyes. They're calm, dark and deep. Whatever Peter was going to say, he decides to withhold it. </p><p>The man's mouth moves like he's trying to force himself to use it. </p><p>"Very well," he says, and Peter freezes. </p><p>Something clicks into place that never would've otherwise, and he gets flashes of this man - this man - smiling, laughing, rifling through papers. Of hours spent on nothing; wasted, really, but more precious than any he's ever had. </p><p>"Very well," Elias repeats, ducking his head, then takes a step closer and presses a kiss to his cheek. </p><p>Peter feels the warmth of his breath on his skin for a moment, the light pressure of a hand on his chest. Then he steps back again.</p><p>"Goodbye," he says, and walks away. </p><p>For a few empty seconds, Peter watches him leave, the wind tugging at his hair. The grass flows and meanders like a golden-green sea, combed through by giant, invisible fingers.</p><p>Then, he sees his own shadow expand rapidly on the ground. It grows until it's huge and dark, and he belatedly realises that it's because of the light coming from above and behind him, the light coming from the lantern--and then it hits, so blinding bright it whites out everything around them. </p><p>When it settles, Daisy is already running back towards him through the grass, her eyes wide and mouth agape. </p><p>"Holy shit!" she cries, grabbing her head as she stumbles to a halt a few metres away from him. She's staring up at the tip of the lighthouse. </p><p>Elias, just a figure in the distance now, gets in the van with a slam of the metal door. </p><p>"I'd say it's fixed," Peter says, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. </p><p>"Looks like it," Daisy walks up to him, claps him on the shoulder. He doesn't like that. "Well. Guess you'll be staying here. Get in touch with us if it... happens again," she furrows her brow in something like doubt. </p><p>Peter doesn't move. "I don't think it will."</p><p>She nods, shrugs, and moves to leave, but he stops her with a gesture.</p><p>"I'll reconsider that cigarette. If you don't mind." </p><p>"Have the whole box," she stuffs the slightly squished packet into his hand and gives a weary sort of salute. "Good day to you, lightkeeper." </p><p>Peter nods with a cigarette already in his mouth and busies himself with fishing out his lighter from his pocket. He flicks it open with a burst of yellow flame and puffs, breathing in a burst of hot, sharp smoke. </p><p>That's that.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and there we are. thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts &amp; kudos mean a lot, especially with such a short fic. :)<br/>thank you so much for reading!<br/>EDIT 2: even though this is a standalone story, i fell a bit in love with the universe, and ended up writing sequels. if you like, you can click through to read them below. the first is a continuation of this one, the second an elias-centric epilogue. :)</p>
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